


And When the Sun Has Faded

by brynnmck



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Canadian Actor RPF, Canadian Actor RPF (C6D), Canadian Musician RPF (C6D), Headstones (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-14
Updated: 2007-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Fucking Scotland in February, man, whose idea was that?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And When the Sun Has Faded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [china_shop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/gifts).



> Thanks to the fabulous [](http://catwalksalone.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://catwalksalone.livejournal.com/)**catwalksalone** for a speedy and excellent beta. All remaining mistakes and missteps are mine.

Almost midnight, and Hugh opens the door to Callum's trailer without knocking. He's got just enough buzz left from the day to hope for a reaction, that Callum'll think he's a crazed stalker fan or be naked or masturbating or something—masturbating would be _fantastic_ , actually, on several levels—but Callum's just sitting on the end of his bed, wrapped in a blanket and watching something on TV. He hits _pause_ and raises an eyebrow.

"Close the damn door, you're letting the cold in."

Hugh does, stepping inside with a smile. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but the cold's already in. Fucking Scotland in February, man, whose idea was _that_?" He chafes his hands together; the damp is already heavy in his clothes. Could be Vancouver, almost, and that's kind of a weird déjà vu, considering.

Callum's mouth quirks. "So I take it you're not gonna go golfing with me on Saturday?"

"Jesus. One, I can't believe you'd actually volunteer for that again, and two, it's two fucking degrees outside," Hugh informs him, crossing the small space between them and nudging Callum over to make room on the bed. He toes his shoes off, kicks them into a corner—Callum glares, as usual, and Hugh ignores him, as usual—and sits down, forearms braced on his thighs, his hip pressed against Callum's. He shakes his head and points at Callum, two fingers, teasing him with his own gesture. "You have a serious problem, Rennie."

"I do," Callum agrees. "There's this crazy asshole who sneaks into my trailer in the middle of the night and lets all the heat out and then mocks my hobbies. You think you can help me with that?"

Hugh leans over and puts his mouth close to Callum's ear. "Maybe the heat part," he offers, pitching his voice low, and Callum laughs, a little husky, and it's _good_. Good to hear him laugh, good to be next to him, good for the little corner of Hugh's mind or heart or soul or whatever that's always restless when Callum's gone to be _settled_ for once. Hugh bites him gently on the curve of his jaw and then moves back. They'd done the crazy tearing-each-other's-clothes-off thing yesterday when they'd gotten here, and now they've got time. No need to rush. "Besides," he says, "I didn't sneak. Not much point."

Callum snorts. "True. And good thing, because you suck at it."

"Oh, fuck you." Hugh grins, shoving his shoulder into Callum's.

There'd been a time when they couldn't joke about it, a time when there'd been hollering fights over the phone that sometimes ended in orgasms and sometimes in weeks of silence, but most of the people here now are family, Bruce and Pyper and Bernie and Nowak and Rebecca and even Noel. They'd all been there the first time around, at the beginning, and if he and Callum were hoping to fly under the radar at this point, they'd be about ten years too late. And that's good, too, not having to work so fucking hard to hide everything; Hugh hates that shit, and Callum's right, he sucks at it, so it's nice to let his guard down a bit. Not that he and Callum are gonna be groping each other between takes or anything, but at least he doesn't have to watch every fucking word he says.

"Hey." Callum bumps a knee against his. "You awake?"

"Yeah," Hugh says, scrubbing a hand over his face, "sorry, just not as—" and then he catches sight of the TV, sees what Callum's been watching. It's his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Again?"

"Yeah." And now Callum's neck is a little flushed. "It's called research. You know, work? You may have heard of it?"

"Uh-huh. First lesson, grasshopper: never bullshit a bullshitter." Hugh looks at the screen, the slightly blurred image of him and Callum screaming into the same mike and Bernie making a crazy drummer face in the background. Bruce had made them all watch earlier, a welcome-back, this-is-your-life kinda deal and that had been a trip, laughing and reminiscing and throwing popcorn at the screen (and each other). But here—just him and Callum in this tiny fucking freezing-ass trailer—this is different. He looks back at Callum. "Long fucking time ago."

Callum's mouth curves. "Yep." He hits _play_ and the screen shifts into motion again, "Sonic Reducer" thrashing through the speakers on low. It's weird, seeing it for the second time in one day. Hugh's not above watching his own work from time to time (OK, maybe a lot, but there's a lot of crap on Canadian TV, he can't help it if he likes the stuff he's done), but _Hard Core Logo_ … that's one he doesn't come back to very often. There's a lot of shit about those days he doesn't want to remember, and a lot of shit he just doesn't remember, period, and what he _does_ want to remember is etched pretty clear in his brain anyway: Bruce and the crew, patient, open, straight-up; meeting Pyper and Bernie and his new band forming around him; first-take jitters; cramped van; watching the dailies with his heart thudding in his chest because holy shit, this could actually be really fucking cool.

And Callum. Every damn thing about Callum. Blue eyes and sweat and muscle and energy like a goddamn magnet, smiling, laughing, yelling at Joe, yelling at Hugh, bullshitting with him, talking him down, kissing him, fucking him, singing and talking at three in the morning when Hugh couldn't sleep.

Yeah, Hugh doesn't really need a DVD to remember that.

The song ends, and when Hugh looks over, Callum's watching him.

"Hey," Hugh says, his nerve endings starting to prickle now, his skin getting warm underneath the chill.

"Hey." Callum smiles, easy and bright, like he doesn't seem to do nearly enough these days.

Hugh worries about Callum sometimes, stuck out there in Van on a fucking _spaceship_ —well, the spaceship part is cool, actually, especially since it's filled with hot chicks, and God knows Callum knows fucking _everyone_ in Van, but still, Hugh's not sure how well _they_ know _Callum_ —but anyway. They're here now, and they've got six weeks ( _six_ fucking _weeks_ , he and Callum haven't had six _days_ together since they were Joe Dick and Billy Tallent the first time) and he's dizzy with it.

He stands up just enough to get one knee on the bed, pulls at the blanket around Callum's shoulders so it slides off and lands in a heap on the floor. Callum shivers. Hugh moves behind him, bracketing Callum between his knees, hands stroking down Callum's arms, molding the muscle underneath the soft plaid shirt. On the screen, Billy's laughing, only it's not just Billy, it's Callum too, right under the surface, while Joe/Hugh leans stupidly close, loving it, egging him on.

"Jesus," Hugh murmurs, scraping Callum's earlobe with his teeth, "I can't believe we actually got away with that shit."

Callum laughs softly, his head falling back to rest on Hugh's shoulder, the remote in his hand clattering down to the floor. "You read the reviews," he says. His breath catches and Hugh can feel the hitch under his tongue as he licks down the side of Callum's throat. "Homoerotic subtext. Edgy. Critics loved it."

" _You_ loved it," Hugh shoots back, dirty and smug. His hands are still cold but heating fast, the friction from the rough fabric of Callum's jeans buzzing against his palms. Callum braces his feet on the floor and pushes his shoulders back into Hugh's chest, his knees falling open a little more, and Hugh takes advantage of the opportunity to slide one hand between Callum's legs and press hard. "Kinky bastard."

Callum gasps. "Sorry, I forget how—" he hesitates, hips driving up against the pressure as Hugh palms him through the denim, then, "—shy you are," he finishes dryly, and Christ, only Callum can be dry even when he can hardly fucking _breathe_.

Hugh laughs, and when Callum cranes his neck around, Hugh's right there to meet him, his laughter getting swallowed into the heat of Callum's mouth. It's a sloppy kiss—the angle's funky and Callum's shoulder is _sharp_ against Hugh's collarbone; Christ on a bike, Hugh's gonna shove some fish and chips down his throat first thing tomorrow—but Hugh likes a little sloppy, likes the sounds Callum's making in his throat and the cool air against his wet lips when he sucks in breath.

Hugh lets himself get lost in it, the slick heat of Callum's tongue, Callum's fingers buried in his newly-grown-back hair and flexing against his skull. Hugh keeps up a steady rhythm with his palm against Callum's crotch and shoves his free hand underneath Callum's shirt, wanting more, closer, _now_. Callum groans and breaks the kiss, but before Hugh can chase after him, he's twisted around, a hand on each of Hugh's shoulders pushing him down onto the bed.

Well, Hugh's got no problem with that, or with the way Callum's long fingers stumble a little over the buttons of Hugh's shirt. In fact, Hugh digs that a _lot_ , Callum _Keith_ Rennie all thumbs after a little friendly groping.

"Need any help?" he asks, grinning.

"Ten years," Callum mutters, intent on his work, "ten fucking years, and I keep waiting for you to shut up…"

"Well, you could try giving me something more interesting to do with my mouth," Hugh suggests helpfully, and the look Callum gives him then—sharp, sparking lust, yeah, but also amusement and something bigger, too, something that's kept them connected through all the distance and drugs and fights and misunderstandings and too-short nights in crappy motels whenever the merry-go-round dumped them both in the same place—that look leaves him breathless.

" _Christ_ , Callum," he manages, suddenly laid open, and levers himself up so he can lick into Callum's mouth again.

Callum opens against him instantly, hungrily, pushing Hugh's shirt off over his shoulders. Callum's shirt has those goddamn mother-of-pearl snaps, which are fucking stupid but also pretty fucking convenient, parting under a couple of hard yanks with a burst of satisfying staccato pops. Sounds good hitting the floor, too, and then it's skin against skin, Callum's nipples pebbled hard and pink in the cold. Hugh's got plenty of heat to spare, he's fucking burning up, actually, blood rushing through his veins like a freight train, but he's hard as a rock and he knows Callum is too, so he fumbles at their jeans first, popping both buttons within half a second of each other.

"Show-off," Callum growls, grinning.

He bites quickly on Hugh's bottom lip and then backs off, stands up, the sound of his zipper loud in the tiny trailer; Hugh takes a moment to appreciate the way the muscles of Callum's shoulders shift under skin and freckles as he works his jeans and underwear off. When he straightens to step out of them, his cock is flushed and thick, standing out like an invitation, and Hugh's mouth damn near waters.

"Uh-uh," says Callum, hoarse and smoky, drawing Hugh's attention back up, "not tonight, I wanna fuck you," and it's pretty fucking hard to argue with _that_ , so when Callum hooks his hands into Hugh's waistband and pulls, Hugh just falls back on the bed, lifts his hips and lets Callum strip him bare.

Then Callum's climbing up his body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on Hugh's thigh, his hipbone, his stomach. Hugh jerks and gasps with each one, till finally Callum stretches full-length on top of him and their cocks brush and Hugh has to bite his lip on an embarrassingly loud groan.

"Shut _up_ ," Callum hisses, "there's some people in _Germany_ who don't need to know we're doing this," but his grin is wide and wicked and he pushes down with his hips, burying his own choked cry in the skin of Hugh's shoulder.

"Shut up," Hugh mocks with what breath he has left, which makes Callum laugh and tighten his grip in Hugh's hair.

Callum thrusts a few more times and the pressure is fucking _fantastic_ but the friction's too much, and Hugh flails out with one hand, trying to reach the bedside table without having to break contact.

Callum _tsks_ at him, braced on his forearms with his face a few inches above Hugh's. "Jesus, Dillon, you're so fucking impatient. Where's the foreplay? Where's the _romance_?"

"The foreplay," Hugh says, and he thinks it's a pretty good display of patience that he doesn't add _you fucking pussy_ after that, "was spending all day with you and not bending you over the nearest available surface."

Callum snorts. "OK."

"And the romance was …" Hmm. That's a little tougher, but … _aha_. "OK, we had dinner, right?"

"Yeah," Callum says, eyebrow raised, "if you call a deli plate dinner."

Hugh waves a hand. "Hey. There was food, it was night, it was dinner."

"OK," Callum agrees. "I'll give you that one."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And then," Hugh continues, "when I came in, you were watching a movie. So." He smirks. "Dinner. Movie. Romance."

Callum tilts his head, considering, then nods. "OK. Well. Guess I'll get the lube, then."

"Yeah," Hugh says cheerfully, "I think you should."

The bottle's right where they left it, and Callum's eyes are hot on Hugh's the whole time he's slicking himself up, lube glistening on his fingers, on his cock as he slides a condom on. Then his fingers—God, Hugh loves Callum's fingers—are pressing, searching, sinking …

" _Fuck_ , yes," Hugh gasps, feeling the first stretch and burn. He's still a little sore from the previous day, a kind of sweet ache that dissolves into mindless want as Callum fucks him gently, first with two fingers, then three, opening him up till Hugh's pushing back against his hand, grunting. "Callum—Jesus _fuck_ , Callum—please—fucking—"

"OK," Callum says, and his voice is quiet but charged, sizzling like heat lightning over Hugh's skin, "it's OK, I've got you," and he pulls his fingers out, lines himself up and slides in, slow and blunt and hard and oh God, _nothing_ should feel this good.

Callum's eyelids flutter shut, his forehead dropping down to Hugh's shoulder. "Jesus," he says unsteadily, " _Hugh_."

Hugh reaches up and puts his hand on the back of Callum's neck, right where the short, sweat-damp hair meets the skin. They stay like that for a few seconds, just breathing, just remembering, then Hugh puts a finger under Callum's chin and nudges his mouth closer, kisses him while he angles his own hips and pushes himself just that tiny bit further down Callum's cock. Callum moans into his mouth and starts to move, steady in and out, setting off tiny starbursts behind Hugh's eyes with every stroke. Hugh sucks on Callum's tongue, maps Callum's body with his hands like he always does, seeing what's familiar, seeing what's changed. Warm skin, firm muscle, a new scar on his back, maybe, but Hugh's gonna have to wait till later to find out for sure because Callum's fucking him harder now, sweat at his temples and the hollows of his neck, thigh muscles starting to shake with exertion.

"Yeah," Hugh tells him, clutching at his triceps for leverage, "Yeah, Callum, that's it, come on, _fuck_ me—"

"Shhh—" Callum says desperately, so Hugh changes the angle a little and Callum half-shouts, "Fuck!" as a shudder rushes through his body. "Asshole," he chokes out when his eyes focus again, half-grim and half-rueful, and Hugh just laughs and points out,

"Yeah, that's the idea," but then Callum shifts his weight, thrusts hard and grabs Hugh's cock in a lube-slick hand, and Hugh's eyes roll back in his head and he is _definitely_ not laughing anymore. In fact, he's pretty sure he's kind of begging, with Callum's cock in his ass and his own cock jerking up into Callum's fist, "Oh, Christ, Callum, don't stop, don't stop, yeah, Callum, _fuck_ ," and Callum's saying,

"Fuck, Hugh, so fucking hot, so fucking tight, Jesus, so good." Pornographic harmony to Hugh's melody, and that's how Hugh comes, with Callum's voice humming through his veins.

When he can think again, Callum's collapsed over him, his mouth smashed to Hugh's collarbone and his chest still heaving.

"Hey," Hugh says weakly. "I think the Germany thing might be fucked," and Callum laughs, easy, tired waves that roll out of him and over Hugh's skin, fresh and warm.

"Jesus, Dillon," Callum manages eventually, "I can't take you anywhere."

Hugh rolls his eyes. "Oh, like you weren't just as fucking loud."

"Whatever." Callum takes a long, deep breath, lets it out, then shifts and they both gasp a little as he pulls out. Hugh has to resist the urge to hold on to him, keep him close; _six weeks_ , he reminds himself. _We've got six weeks._

Callum stumbles to the bathroom to get rid of the condom, comes back with a damp hand towel and helps Hugh get cleaned up. Hugh knows he should go back to his own trailer—he can't sleep here, they've got to at least make _some_ effort not to flaunt what they're doing—but it's cold out there and he's tired and he can't bring himself to move just yet. Callum doesn't seem to mind, just collects the remote control and his smokes and crawls back into bed. He pulls the covers over them both, angling himself so the top of his head is resting against the side of Hugh's, their shoulders pressed together.

The movie's still playing on the TV; Hugh watches it for a few minutes while Callum lights a smoke and inhales deep. Billy and Joe are arguing, silhouetted against the rising sun. Something twists in Hugh's chest, an echo, an old dark fear—

"If anyone asks," Callum says, "I'm telling them you rented a porno." He sounds lazy and fucked-out, and happier than Hugh's heard him in months.

"If anyone asks," Hugh retorts, stealing Callum's cigarette and taking a drag, then finishing the sentence on a puff of smoke, "I'm telling them you fucked my brains out, and tomorrow night I'm looking forward to returning the favor."

Callum looks at him for a few seconds, eyes narrowed.

Then, "Yeah," he says, grinning, shaking his head. "Yeah, OK," and he grabs the remote and switches off the TV.


End file.
